Her Last Vow
by DREAMIRIS
Summary: Backstory on Mary Watson nee Morstan. Timeline alternating between pre-everything and post-Reichenbach and during/post-His Last Bow. Non-linear narrative.
1. Prologue

**Ch. 1**

* * *

_As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends; you've got a way out. Well, good luck with that._

The shot rings out through the air, loud and clear as Jim falls back to the roof instantly, victory surging through his veins and in his eyes, still laughing at the great detective's shaken nerves. Timing was impeccable, he had to admit. His dead eyes watch the tall man staring in horror as blood begins to trickle across the roof underneath Jim's head.

"No," Sherlock breathes out, spinning away from him, his breathing noisy and frantic as he raises his hands to his head in horror.

Moran's timing and aim were impeccable.

He watches Sherlock in morbid fascination as the other man breathes shallowly and rapidly, holding his sleeve up over his mouth in revulsion as he turns to look again at Jim's fixed grin. He thinks frantically for a while, then slowly turns towards the edge of the building. His breathing begins to slow as he steps up onto the ledge, blows out another breath and looks down towards the ground.

Jim frowns a little as he feels a small itch in the nape of his neck. He hated overcoats, except for Sherlock's of course, but it was most necessary. He tries not to twitch as Sherlock dials someone, possibly John. So adorably sentimental.

"SHERLOCK!" John's voice travels to the rooftop, and sounds like someone had just spoken into his ears. He gets up. There's no sign of the detective. He's gone. His phone buzzes.

**_All clear._**

He smirks at the display, and tears away the overcoat and the suit jacket to see his lovely shirt stained with crimson. He did hate the smell of blood. But at least it was fresh.

* * *

After a few hours, back in some plain black car, just to avoid all the attention, Jim finds a handsome male, fortyish, with a small tattoo of a lion on his neck and in a black suit sitting next to him, texting away on his PDA. He had to give Sherlock credit. Managed it admirably. The whole street was cut-off, making escape quite difficult for him.

"Sulejmani?"

"Dead."

"By?"

"Moran."

Jim grits his teeth furiously. He looks away at his own reflection, drifting away into the depth under his eyes.

"They took Sherlock Holmes away, by the way. Mycroft Holmes intervened."

Jim makes no indication whatsoever that he had heard. He still stares away at himself, picking at the growth beneath his right eye.

"Boss?"

He stirs from his daydream, "Don't trouble me unless you're dying!" he snaps at him, "and even if you're dying, go away from me and do it."

"Cam's on line," he holds out a phone to him.

"Oh, give me a moment, will you? I'm mourning the death of someone very close to my _heart_!" He breaks into very unbecoming giggles, causing the man next to him to quirk an eyebrow in confusion. "Mycroft Holmes is still there," says he in a very serious tone, "He's a bigger threat."

Jim smirks, tapping his fingers on his kneecap, "That's the plan. And not the only one there. Everyone's very much alive."

"Alive?"

"You think I'd be so easily fooled by darling Holmes? He's a teddy bear, went out of character so easily, gave it all away! I swore he would be on my side. And now, he is."

After some time, he adds sweetly, "Unofficially, of course, my dear," he plants a quick kiss on the man's left cheek, making him cower at the touch. It wasn't affectionate in the least. It was the sort that said 'I own you'. Jim's voice turns bland again, "Now, turn the news on, you moron!"

"...Richard Brook was found dead on the rooftop of St. Bartholomew's Hosp..."

"Turn that away darling," says he, "There's no photo of handsome ol' me. Only the dreadful reporter."

"...Fraudulent detective, Sherlock..."

"Oh no, no!" he buries his face in his hands, "There's no me! I worked so hard, and there's no ME!" He bellows in the car, making the driver almost jump in his seat. The man changes the channel again. He keeps on browsing till one of them comes up.

"Yes! YES!" He points, delight clear on his face, "I'll send this news company a bouquet every Christmas!"

On the screen, there's a photo of Jim being arrested in the Tower Of London. His face falls dramatically.

"Where's my BODY?! Why aren't they showing the world my dead BODY?! Cancel the bouquet, Davis. Make it a bomb!" He grabs the remote and flings it towards the small LCD screen. The glass cracks and the video is lost. The man called Davis does not even flinch. He stays there, as if oblivious, or too used to Jim's temper.

"Cam's on line," says he, like a mother's threat.

He sighs resignedly, "Transfer the call to Moran. I'm depressed and bored."

Davis quirks his eyebrow for the second time, "Bored?"

Jim rolls his eyes and plants another kiss on his cheek, "You're like a child who demands a chocolate biscuit for every sum. I gave you a kiss. Now shoo!"

It's clear from Davis' face that he wasn't expecting a kiss. He draws out a handkerchief and wipes his cheek discreetly as Jim closes his eyes, settling into the seat and taking off his shoes, before hugging his legs to his chest.

* * *

After a week...

The world believes that James Moriarty a.k.a Richard Brook is dead. His identity had been verified, his face and his blood type along with his DNA. He settles in Switzerland, smirking as he watches the Reichenbach falls from a distance. Sherlock was deep entangled into the web he had woven for him. And more importantly, so was Mycroft.

The roar of the falls soothes him. Sometimes he wishes he could go to the top and tumble back downwards, plunging into the waters. He discards the idea when he finds it stupid and boring.

"So, boss," Moran comes up to him and takes his hand, threading their fingers together. Jim does not complain. He feels nothing about it. It makes no difference to him, "Care to share the joke with me?"

"You won't understand it, love. Makes me so... romantic. Reichenbach."

"Ooh! Boss is romantic!" Moran teases, "Wanna drink to that?"

"Drink to what?"

"Your... romantic nature, perhaps?"

Jim simply leers in response, "Don't die on the way, darling."

"You should put that on a T-shirt," Moran snorts and goes to the car, returning with two wine glasses and a bottle of champagne. Jim grabs it and pours some out for the two of them.

"What shall we toast to? To... boring consulting detectives?"

Jim clinks their glasses together, "And to awesome consulting criminals. And their wicked snipers," he sips from his glass, looking at her with a smirk decorating his face.

"Nah, boss!" She runs a finger down his pink lips, her short blond hair flying wildly about her face, "To the awesome and the only consulting criminal in the world and his one and only wicked and _sexy_ sniper."

* * *

**Presenting the male version of Anthea for you.**

**So, did you like the idea for the fic? Tell me if you did! I'd love to continue this! 3 And d****on't you dare miss out the obvious clues here!**

**I know that the start was a bit of a throw off, but the next chapter doesn't quite continue from here. I'm planning to put Mary's ballad in flashbacks. And nothing's fixed now. It's just a start, I might change my mind anytime :D**


	2. Fall From Grace: Part I

**I'm starting from Mary's last CIA mission and I'm keeping her American. For some reason, it suits her better.**

**And for similar reasons, I'm keeping her real name Abigail. It seems to suit her (according to me anyway): Abigail Gabriella Rosalyn Adams. Somewhat like William Sherlock Scott Holmes :P**

**Sorry for that Frank Abagnale Sr. thing. I couldn't get any other name at the moment. My apologies.**

**Excuse my ignorance of the CIA, and if there's any mistake please let me know. I'll correct it as soon as I can. x**

* * *

**Ch. 2**

* * *

29th May, 2002

She groans in pain as she slices the side of her abdomen open with a blunt penknife. The bullet was stuck there, inside her and Osborne, a tall, well-built man with Miami looks and victim to a bullet, was already dying, holding onto her foot, giving both of them a ground to hold on to, to rest themselves upon. The jeep in which they had managed their escape lay there, devoid of petrol and she, in its shadow, devoid of hope. Story of her life.

"Gail," he breathes out, "Look... into my...my eyes."

Abigail doesn't. She focuses her slowly deteriorating attention upon the bullet wound, now open like the Grand Canyon flooded with rivers of blood. She knows that she's going to die, sooner or later, either due to blood loss, or even if she somehow finishes with suturing, from the lack of water in the desert and the scorchingly ablaze sun. Even if they were rescued, the wound would become too septic for her to survive for a long time without appropriate surgery.

But anyway, it was her best shot as she drives the penknife inside of her slowly, gathering as much patience as she could. She silently thanks her knowledge of the human physiology for the millionth time as she steers her way through various organs to find the nasty 9 mm calibre bullet playing hide and seek inside her.

She lets out a harsh grunt of pain. She knows that the enemies were close upon them, and there was a million to one odds that they would survive.

"Gail..." Osborne collapses into oblivion with her name on his lips. She envies him. Why would Death never come for her, back when her mother had left her as a one-month-old baby in the gutters to fend for herself, back when she had almost died in the bombings in Strasbourg? And in here too, Death was waiting cunningly. Her vision was going hazy at the edges slowly, but not enough to block out the pain. She bleeds out slowly as her fingers search inside her till they strike a metallic shrapnel.

Pain almost forgotten, she reaches out for the little nuisance deftly and with one sure tug, it is out of her system. Her vision starts to go out, her breathing speeds up and slows down at the same time and she can almost see the smiling face of the Grim Reaper. She reaches out for Osborne, scraps of cloth, anything to do the impossible suture with, just for now, till she reaches some hospital, if she could even manage that. Her last chance, her last desperate shot at survival, to make the world turn around like she used to think when she first joined the CIA.

And then she sees it, the men in her pursuit. Even in her obliterating pain, through her parched throat and massive sunburns all over her skin, one thing stays constant throughout. She grabs the gun and shoots with a burst of sudden energy, as if the thrill of the kill could provide her with that.

50 metres away, a jeep bursts into flames, a courtesy of Abigail's perfect aim, and her carefully and instinctively calculated shot. After that, silence ensues, broken only by her groans as she fumbles around to draw strands of fibre from his cotton shirt. The silence around her intensifies, the only disturbance being her irregular breath and a voice emerging from a radio sort of a device.

"Special Agent Adams?!" says the voice, only to hear her muffled groans as she stuffs a piece of cloth into her mouth to keep herself from screaming, "We have your coordinates. Stay. Exactly. Where. You. Are."

As if she has any strength to move anywhere except to crawl.

She lies back down on the hard hot ground, fingers trembling, heartbeat slowly slowing down as she tries to sew herself up. It's a meticulous task, with only a pair of tweezers used as makeshift needles. Her eyes fall on the anthill roughly ten metres away from her.

_Dorylus gribodoi_, she identifies their species, owing to her prodigious memory.

With hope in her eyes surging back into her veins, Abigail manages to crawl towards the safari ants deserting their homes slowly. She picks two of them and settles them carefully on the mouth of the wound. Succumbing to their natural defence mechanism, some ants scurry away, while the two of her subject ants insert their powerful shearing jaws into the edges of the wound. She lets out a piercing scream as they bite deeper, stapling the far edges of her gash together. Triumph is discernible in her face as she reaches out to break their bodies away, leaving the heads and therefore the jaws intact, sealing the wound as effectively as a surgical suture. She repeats her experiment, until she notes the noise of chopper blades and passes into unconsciousness, awaiting definite rescue, a smile on her face as the pain finally fades away.

She was going to live, after all.

* * *

It takes her seven months to recover fully. She had a bullet in her leg and had avoided amputation narrowly. However, it wasn't the end. It was just the beginning.

She could have joined active service back after a holiday of three months. But her employer decided seven. She knew what was coming, judging from the look on his face, the gist of it probably, but never the details. Something like this happened to most CIA special agents, more so to a good one.

Their cover was blown, or so it was called. So she won't be a part of the operation anymore. Any information for which Osborne had given his life up for and which she had almost died for would be passed on to the more senior agents. They'd take all the credit and she would be shunted sideways to a less important assignment. Typical CIA.

Little does she know that this was going to be way worse.

"Special Agent Abigail Gabriella Rosalyn Adams," the man farthest away from her reads her name as the review committee sit across the table, as serious and grave-faced as the Armageddon. She knows that this was going to happen, otherwise Frank, her employer, would have told her to prepare _seriously_ for the tests which would declare her fit for active service instead of goofing around.

"We've called this meeting here to investigate the death of Special Agent Pierre Osborne. Cause of death: a bullet in the abdomen."

She gives them a nod, her eyes telling the speaker to get on with it.

"We're _also_ here to investigate the nature of the artefacts belonging to him, and you."

* * *

About a year ago...

The United States was shaken by the September 11 attacks. There was chaos everywhere. Some demanded justice for their sole breadwinner being lost as a result of the bombings. Others demanded justice for the aftermath, mostly the ethnic communities and the immigrants. Many big names came up: Al Qaeda and other intelligence communities, terrorist cells spread all over the globe. In such a frantic situation, the United States government retaliated with a large scale secret operation codenamed as A.R.A.S. Abigail was a part of it, it was one of her biggest assignments till then. She and Osborne had traced a couple of intelligence spies down to a military base somewhere in East Africa.

They had been set up. The information that Osborne had received was wrong, or as she realised later, entirely misinterpreted.

* * *

"Do you recognise this, Miss Adams?" The smart brunette white-collar guy in centre, lean, muscled and quite charming, her favourite and her current subject of loathing as well, passes her a circuit chip, half burnt and navy bluish green in its appearance, sealed neatly inside an evidence bag. All it takes her is one glance, "Pierre's. Kept contact with his informants with this."

"Precisely. We tracked all its... shall we say, incomings and outgoings. His most regular contacts," his voice escapes into a whisper, "Ask me who they are?"

She grits her teeth. This is taking too much time. The man leans forward, clasping his hands, and smiles at her, a predatory smile. Women in CIA were never treated with proper attitude; they were always dominated by their male colleagues. In the face of such hostility, Pierre Osborne and her boss Frank were complete gentlemen.

She leans back in response, preventing her posture from becoming defensive in any manner.

"Who?" She frames it like a statement, not as a question born out of curiosity.

"Nobody!" He exclaims and stares at her, like she were some animal. He pauses as if waiting for a round of applause to come through. Abigail stares at him, dour faced as ever as he continues, "No fixed location. He has had contact with at least every person on this earth, as it may seem. Do you know where the last location was registered from? 2 miles under the Bermuda Triangle. So suspicious, isn't it?"

Abigail manages a small polite smile instead of full-blown laughter. She wishes she had a gun so that she could fire it all around in the room while just revelling in the hilarity of the idea.

"Oh, I see," her tone is however quite sober, "You're gonna cut me up and see if I'm an alien!" She leans forward, looking him unnervingly in the eyes while narrowing hers, "I'm pretty sure, Mr. McGrath, that the doctors have seen to that," she leans back again, folding her legs carefully, "Thanks to this son of a bitch over here," she bobs her head to indicate her employer, Frank Abagnale Sr., "They would have amputated my very human leg."

The smug smile disappears from the man's face upon hearing his own name, which he is pretty sure he has never revealed to her. Frank simply rolls his eyes, knowing how rude she always was and how she always seemed to know things that she wasn't supposed to know. She bites the insides of her cheek as she realises what she has just said. And there went the peaceful talks right out of the window. However, another man took lead of the inquiry.

"We traced some of the more careless calls back," this one was more headstrong, "All of them originated from Kandahar. What d'you have to say for yourself now, Miss Adams?"

Abigail suddenly realises that she isn't being called Special Agent Adams anymore. All eyes are upon her, all of them looking at her like she was a prey and they were the lions ready to tear her apart. Frank doesn't meet her eyes as she looks up at him for some support.

"What the hell are you talking about?" She demands as her pupils narrow down to slits, "What are the _fuck_ you trying to imply?"

Just because the person happened to be in Afghanistan at the time of the call, it didn't mean that he was a part of a terrorist cell! They really had become paranoid after the attacks.

The only other woman in the room, a tall blonde and old bird gazing over some papers, which reminds her of M in the James Bond movies, grimaces distastefully at her rough use of English language. Abigail prepares a cutting retort only to be silenced by the second man.

"Special Agent Osborne was working with Al Qaeda since the past three years, managing his contact via an organisation in Europe with its roots in London," says he in a bland voice, devoid of emotion, "You've also been working with him for the past three years, Miss Adams. I think your position here is quite clear, given the fact that you know each of our names and that you blew up two of our agents while in Northern Sudan-"

She remembers the shot she had fired, "It was a natural reaction, you asshole!" She raises her voice, refusing to be spoken down, "We were being followed!"

"That," the man speaks calmly over her protests, "was a military base that you successfully managed to infiltrate _and_ blow up, Miss Adams. We train agents to collect information here in the CIA, not to blow things up as they please! Now thank goodness this was some small nondescript country in Africa, otherwise you would have officially declared war-"

Information, my ass, she sneers to herself as she zones out for the next half an hour, watching their lips move unceremoniously. The jobs till now had been more about killing and less about gathering human intelligence. And then, reality begins to hit her.

They didn't think of her as a part of the CIA anymore. She was a spy to them, a goddamned spy. Just because their information was wrong for the first time...

"Miss Adams, you're temporarily relieved from duty in the light of several inquiries-"

"I'm the best goddamned agent here, for God's sake! Frank," she looks at her employer incredulously, unbelievable amount of anger rising up in her. She has never felt anger before. She has never had something to be angry for, but now she does. She loves her job, it's the only thing she has ever loved in her whole life. She cannot lose it.

She has heard of the saying, 'being married to one's work'. She had given those bastards everything, every waking moment of her life had been dedicated to gathering HUMINT. She had got herself shot and bitten by fucking safari ants because of it. She had worked 24x7 during the 9/11 attacks. She had lost her virginity to a perverted old Russian prick just so she could steal a couple of missile papers, all for her Work, her job. And they were just throwing her away? Just disposable?

She used to believe (quite naively) that her future in the CIA was secured, insured.

Frank leans back against his chair, arms crossed over his chest, and spectacles lying on the table, looking helpless and frankly pained at her impending doom.

"You said _my_ artifacts as well," says she in a quiet demanding voice, something that doesn't seem like it's going to be heeded anymore.

"Take her away," comes the smoothly delivered order. She knows better than to protest. She stands, gritting her teeth, and exits the room with the two officers, feeling terribly dangerous and furious and screwed up. This was the end of her life. They would find some evidence, and like stupid brainless pigs, they'd misinterpret it and twist it to make the final verdict sound like 'high treason' etc, etc. And then, they'd lock her up somewhere with no food, no water, no sanitary facilities. Like an animal in captivity, till she gave in. Even if she had nothing to give in to.

She could even escape the facility right then. She knew all its ins and outs. She could get out of the country, completely change her identity, but none of that holds any meaning for her. She's shell-shocked, not by the idea that Pierre was working against them, but by the possibility that everything she had worked for was coming down to heaps of rubbish.

* * *

**This story can have any format, it can be Mary's life in flashbacks. It can be Mary's life in reverse order or any random order juxtaposed. To make the events more clear, I'll write the date along, and maybe I'll post a timeline as a chapter.**

**Sorry if you got creeped by that ants thing. I just wanted to express how dedicated she is.**

**Please review. I'd like to know if my idea is being embraced! x**


	3. Fall From Grace : Part II

**Ch. 3**

* * *

Pierre had been working with Al Qaeda, managing his contact via an organisation in Europe. She cannot believe it... Even after a month, those words haunt her. Organisation in Europe... roots in London... calls that were forwarded via the Himalayas, the Bermuda Triangle and other impossible locations... untraceable calls. Apart from the loathing and the hatred she feels, there is one more thing. Just one more.

Appreciation. It's the most incredible thing that she has heard. Lance couldn't trace a call... that was the most incredible thing. Appreciation towards that organisation, whoever was the head of it. Lance was CIA's gem. He could hack into any system. He had almost eliminated the need for a CIA special agent, but there were some things that machines can't do. Gleaning the intentions of a terrorist, gathering human intelligence, making an assassination look like a terrorist bombing, to name a few.

That's why the world needed people like her, Abigail mused on the one-month anniversary of her illegal detention. She wasn't given a trial, she wasn't treated like a citizen of United States.

It was a small cubicle in which they housed her. Like she had predicted, no food, no water except for once in two days to keep her alive. And the sanitary facilities, she tries not to think about it. A security camera keeps its eyes on her 24x7, monitoring her actions, searching for any signs of her to give up. She isn't allowed to sleep. Whenever she drifts off, loud music begins to wail through the walls. She screams and pleads for all of it to stop when it becomes too much. She hates the fact that she is human, that she needs to sleep, or eat or drink or excrete. She would've given up everything just to show those bastards that they couldn't affect her.

Thankfully, her years of training come to her aid. She's much more immune to such things, she's much, much immune to drugs or sedatives that they use on her, that they slip into her food or her drink. She has been taken in for questioning twice, and both the times she has said that she knows nothing, because she doesn't know. She is offered a house overlooking the beach in somewhere in Beverly Hills, an annual pay of hundred thousand dollars and a full week's Emperor's Package in Caesar's Palace if she cooperates with them, and helps them track down the various "secret terrorist organisations" that she has been in contact with. She tells them that she has no such contacts, even in her half-conscious state she appeals to their human side, telling them that she's just a girl from a poor countryside where people are vastly outnumbered by cows, that her parents were Republicans and that they love America. She tells them that CIA was the love of her life, and the work as equivalent to sex for her, but all they do is just shove her back into her cellar and switch on the loud death metal music.

After a month, she decides that she cannot take it anymore. She shall go mad if she doesn't escape. The CIA isn't her home anymore.

The food tray arrives at eleven am, and is collected by 3 am. She doesn't eat her food. She decides to starve. She is used to no food for days, so it's not really very hard, given that the awful banging of drums and the dark riffs of the metal guitar take her thoughts away from hunger very easily. Most people go mad in such conditions, and they're never the person that they used to be, but then, she isn't most people.

Officers come in, try to feed her. When she doesn't comply, they stun her and like ignorant pigheads, force glucose through into her more than she needs, thus giving her more nutrition than she requires. They have to keep her alive and healthy enough for proper questioning. She slowly starts to nick stuff from them, a revolver, a stun gun and one of their swipe cards, something that isn't discernible in the footage. Now all she has to do is to get out of that cubicle, and then all the doors would open for her. That is, except one.

Abigail knows which facility this is, and she knows that she might die trying to escape from there. But that idea doesn't stop her from smiling. Death was an old friend, and she is quite ready to face Him once again. She keeps her plan for Tuesday 2 o'clock, when most of them would return from lunch.

By quarter to two, she's ready with her equipment, the stun gun and the swipe card. With one blow, the camera is brought down by her, exposing the live wires and blocking out her footage simultaneously. She uses the stun gun to overload the system and the power for the block goes out. She knows that two officers are already on their way to restrain her, armed with guns and stuff. She also knows that a ton of security guards will be there posted everywhere, following the blackout, and also that they would be unable to run after her after the lunch in case the need arose. She waits patiently for them, and within two minutes, she hears them breaking the door down, since the blackout does not allow them use of the skeleton card. She's hidden in a corner, and they march into her room. Within three seconds they lie in a pile, stunned by the sudden high voltage from the stun gun. In another three minutes, she is in the outfit of a security guard and she's walking through the facility, unnoticed and unidentified. A few "need backup" and "one of them's escaped" work marvelously in resonance with the swipe card that she uses to walk out of the facility, smirking to herself. She hops over to the parking, breaks into one of the jeeps, and drives away, whistling 'Nib' to herself, the only song she liked from all that heavy metal confusion. No questions asked. Simple as hell.

But now, after a week, her status is 'Most Wanted'. She's a roadie in somewhere through Illinois, people recognise her in gas stations and bring out their shotguns, and she loves it, until she remembers her mum and dad in the countryside. She watches from a distance as she sees Feds in the house she has grown up, asking about her, breaking her dad's heart. She notices the absence of Pamela, her cat, who had died a month ago. She imagines her parents' faces and shoves that image away, swallowing that guilt.

Then, one day it strikes her. She has to earn. She has no money, and no way to earn, not in America at least. She never stays in one place, and all her cash was getting depleted on gas and Jell-o.

One day, Abigail has got 27 dollars and 39 cents in her pocket. She hasn't talked to a human being for weeks, save the shopkeepers and those guys at the gas stations. She finds a phone lying in a dumpster and picks it up, believing in 'Finders Keepers'. And the life-changing incident occurs two days later. The phone rings, and she's unwilling to receive it, but she does anyway.

"Reach Highway No. 71 in exactly thirty minutes and go to the phone booth," says a gruff voice, "You'll receive the next set of instructions there."

And before she can utter a single sound, the line goes dead. Wordlessly, under the influence of some unknown force, she drives to Highway No. 71. Sure enough, there's a phone booth and a couple of yards away, there's a cop with a speed measuring gun. The phone starts ringing just as thirty minutes are over, and she picks it up. It's a different voice this time, much more refined than the last one.

"Congratulations on your last hit. An amount of twenty one hundred will be delivered to you at your place of choice. Your next job in taped under the phone. You have 36 hours to complete the task and send us the photo of the dead man as confirmation."

And with a click, the line goes dead again. But the money appeals to her. She wonders if this is karma, that she should've taken a phone that belongs to a hitman. Smiling to herself, she reaches for the crumpled note taped under the phone. There is the photograph of a man and his schedule on paper for the entire 36 hours, and a cell number that she's supposed to send the photo to.

* * *

It takes her roughly three and a half hours to locate the man and shoot him between his eyes. Her first ordered hit. She doesn't know if the man was a good man or a bad man. She doesn't know if he even deserves to die. All she knows that he stands between her and her next meal and a decent sleep. So she pulls the trigger and feels that nothingness in spite of the spurt of energy that she usually experiences before a kill. All she does is stand on the rooftop facing the building, all she sees is the grinning man and his look of terror as he sees the camera and the gun pointing at him.

One finger is pressed, and there he is dead. The photo is sent and she immediately receives a text, asking her to get into the next black car that pulls up in front of her. She swallows, as she gets into it, her revolver hidden in the waistband of her jeans. She knows that in such situations, she has no choice but to play along, instead of a sedative making her go along with them. She's driven to an abandoned warehouse, those creepy ones which you see only in movies and TV. The man who awaits her is drinking smoke from a cigarette, watching her quite keenly to the point where it is disconcerting for her, until Abigail speaks.

"Why am I here?"

The man simply gives her a imperturbable smile, "Where's Evans?"

She reaches out for the phone from her pocket and tosses it to him. He catches it neatly, "Found it in a dumpster in Davenport."

"Really? The phone got lost and ended in the hands of a chick with a gun who could finish a thirty six hour job within four hours?"

"Three and a half," says she confidently, knowing that they aren't going to throw her away, even if they thought that she was a cop. She is surprised how easily her charming, cocky facade comes through. She has had too much practice with infiltration. She can't help but smile at CIA's loss.

"Three and a half, right."

"Can't help it," said she cheekily, "I'm very good."

The man studies her for a moment. She doesn't feel awkward anymore. She feels as if she's home, "I know you, don't I?"

"You'd know that, won't you?" says she with a smug smirk.

"You're that "Most Wanted" girl from the posters."

She chuckles to herself, "You make it sound like a cheap thriller-"

"You escaped from Bedford," he exclaims, a tinge of admiration in his voice.

"Now it really sounds like a cheap thriller. Look, if you don't like me, just let me walk out of here, alright? I'm giving you the phone... and for the record, this Evans peep, I think he's done a runner on you guys, and he ain't coming back," she sits there, motionless. She can read him like a book, although she would say that he was much talented than her CIA colleagues. She knows that this man is going to welcome her right into his arms, "And before you ask me why I did the job, it's because I had a gun and I needed a decent meal."

The man's face becomes surprisingly unreadable before he looks into her eyes and stands up, looking down at her, "Merridew."

She flashes him a triumphant smirk, "I'm nobody, but I guess you already know my name."

He flicks his wrist and an envelope is handed to him, "This is the payment," and he tosses her the phone along with it, "Hold on to this."

She digs into the amount and pockets half of it, giving him the rest of the money. He stares at him, dumbfounded, "What's this?"

She shrugs her shoulder, smiling at her "Belated Merry Christmas?"

The man stifles a laugh, "In exchange for what?"

"Get me out of the country."

* * *

After a couple of months and a score of successful assassinations, she's set for an eleven hour flight to London, no questions asked, not with the disguise she has put on. Merridew's got connections there, he's only a part of the giant spider web that Abigail is slowly walking into.

She has had only five hours of decent sleep in the hotel room she has checked into when her phone buzzes, "Broadway Street, exactly thirty minutes."

* * *

This goes on for several months. She likes the English accent, however posh it may sound. She changes her identity, makes tons of friends, moves into a flat, and buys a cat for herself, names it Pamela. She goes out with two men, one of whom liked giving her tours around London in his boss' limo, and who knew just when what place would be empty. She believes in the need for human friendships, she always has believed in it. And all through, she continues living through that facade, the one she has developed since she had first entered the CIA. It's the only thing that reminds her of her old life, except for that scar in her appendix. She still remembers the bite of those safari ants, it's still clearly etched in her mind. To continue living her normal life, she becomes a governess. She loves children, she always has. She remembers telling her mother for a little sibling when she was five. She remembers her broken face when she turned away, and she remembers her guilt when she realised that her mother couldn't have any children. That was the sole reason why they had adopted her.

And one day, her life changes all of a sudden.

Halfway during one of her hits, she receives a text to abandon her mission and proceed to an empty house in Lauriston Gardens. She thinks about it once or twice, and then leaves it for good. She wonders why this guy never calls her. There's no one in the street, not that there would be anyone. It was one-forty in the morning. The door is open and she tightens her grip on her gun as she enters it. She wonders why she has been called into this nondescript house.

"Special Agent Abigail Adams," comes a soft voice. She places the accent as Irish, and turns around at the sound, "Mission partner to Special Agent Pierre Osborne, aren't you?"

She gives a hollow laugh, "Am I supposed to be impressed? Merridew must have told you, no doubt."

Ignoring her words, the voice continues, "Dear Pierre was one of my personal favorites, Gail," she stiffens when she hears 'personal favorites', "so naughty, so I sent him a little parting gift. Tut, tut, tut, playing with the CIA like that, bad boy!"

She stays silent, allowing him to continue, not lowering her gun for a bit.

"Hmm, I'm going to have to keep talking, I guess. The parting gift, yeah... You see, he had become useless to me. So I sent him a coded message, in the hope that he would misinterpret it."

The grip on the gun tightens as she realises who the speaker is, "Merridew's boss. Hmm... I think I'm impressed after all. That Bermuda Triangle thing was really funny. I wanted to laugh out about it during my interrogation."

Her speaker comes to life. Despite hearing his voice, his appearance surprises her a little bit. He does not look like a criminal at all. He looks like a male model in a spotless suit and shiny shoes.

"Isn't it? Atta girl... finally, someone with my _amazing_ sense of humour."

She smirks at him, as she takes in his appearance, "Why am I here?"

"Easy, lady." Says he, drawing close and feigning disappointment, "I thought you would give me those lame threats like _I'm gonna kill you for ruining my career_," at this point, he is acting like a blonde beyotch. She lowers her gun, and laughs with him as if they were long lost friends, "I wonder why you aren't in theater business."

"You don't need to worry about my business. It's booming," says he with a wink, "Literally."

"Okay, so why am I here?"

"So that I can inform you that my last head sniper died, under extremely suspicious circumstances," his eyes twinkle menacingly, something that she smiles involuntarily and crookedly at, "Suspiciously, you say?"

"Very. He got run down by a cab in Regent's Street," he feigns heartbreak.

"Well, he should have seen the signal, right?"

"Just so."

"So, you'll kill me too the day I become useless."

"Then you just have to keep working better to avoid that."

"Woah!" she gives a chuckle, "So, can I dump this stupid phone now?"

"Shoot a hole through it. Your first assignment." She chuckles and tosses it in the air, shooting it when it stops momentarily in the mid air, "There you go, boss."

"Mhm..." he smiles, "Eager."

"For a new phone? Absolutely."

He tosses her a phone, and starts walking away, "I'm gonna call you Moran. Abigail is too old fashioned and... too Republican for me."

She smiles as she sees the phone. A good one for an change, "Wait!" she calls, "What's your name?"

After a beat, Jim replies, "Boss."

* * *

**I really don't know if I can break out of one of the most high security prisons for women like that. Just an idea. Most probably impractical. Don't try this at all :P**


	4. Moriarty

**"If you say that governments protect people," says Jim, "then I'm the government of the underworld."**

**Mary expects that her new boss, going by the name of Moriarty, will have an organisation of tens of thousands of people, like an army, like in those gangster films. Over time, she realises that the count of the number of people in Moriarty's organisation doesn't even go in three digits.**

* * *

**Ch. 4**

* * *

When Abigail's boss makes her the head sniper of his organisation, she expects a lot of briefing, new people to meet with, new rules for the game, new assignments to complete, new hits to do. It's not like she hasn't killed before, or that she enjoys it. She just doesn't think when she pulls her trigger. It's a swift action, not even a decision. The decision has been made hours ago, by people she knows nothing about, by people who don't mean anything to her. Her task is, now, to deliver, unlike her life at CIA, where she could make the decisions for herself, and interpret about what to do and what not to do, whether to kill or whether to manipulate.

She expects that her new boss, going by the name of Moriarty, will have an organisation of tens of thousands of people, like an army, like in those gangster films. Over time, she realises that the count of the number of people in Moriarty's organisation doesn't even go in three digits.

And she's in awe of that man in the suit, the sleek silhouette covered by the suits of Vivienne Westwood and Paul Smith against the brilliant light, a man she feels herself gravitating towards.

Her new CIA. Her new lord.

She doesn't even understand what she's doing in his organisation, or in what capacity he employs her. Once when she had entered into the shower, that was the only time he had "briefed" her, and of course, he had appeared in front of her, completely unaffected by her nudity. He had simply gazed up and down her body disinterestedly, something she found extremely offending, because she had the reputation of a 'hotshot' in the CIA.

Nevertheless, she stifles a theatrical scream and grabs a towel, covering up her modesty. Jim starts laughing at that like a child who just saw a new magic trick.

"I thought you were used to this. Guess you have one month less to live than I originally thought."

She grits her teeth, drawing the towel further up as her arm reached out for her robe, "I'll pull that trick on you once, and I'll see how you'll react to it."

"You won't," he gives her a self-satisfied smirk, "You'll be dead before that."

"I'll prove you wrong."

He rolls his eyes, and leads her to the sitting room, "I came here because it struck me that you didn't understand what I meant when I said that you'll be my head sniper."

She shrugs her shoulders, helping herself to a truffle from the fridge, trying to appear annoyed at the fact that her new boss won't even allow her to take a shower in peace, "Means I kill people which you want me to."

Jim grabs an apple and bites into it, his eyes still fixed onto hers, "Wrong. You kill whichever people I tell you to. I don't _want_ to kill. Killing is stupid and boring. Anyway... what do you think I do?"

"Illegal activities?" she supplies, thinking how boring that will be for someone like Moriarty. Jim laughs incredulously.

"Let's play a game," says he, suddenly rising and going to the window. She watches in fascination how good the sleek cut of his body looks against the curtains, "You say the wrong thing and I cut a month from your lifetime."

"Unless I kill you first," she counters, and Jim smiles.

"Atta girl," he drawls, delivering appraisal and mock in the same line and in the same words, "That's the kind of thing I like to hear, however disappointing. That's the right thing."

"So I get an extra month?"

"No. Although currently, your score is minus three... I don't _do_ anything. If you say that governments protect people, although that's grossly inaccurate, then I'm the government of the underworld. If the Department of Immigration keeps an account of people immigrating into a country, then let's just say that I'm the Department of Immigration for every single _thing_ entering Europe. You don't work for me, you work for my clients. You are freelance, and you can refuse any jobs that come to you, of course, except those that I give you personally."

The smile fades from her face. The working of Moriarty's organisation is still a mystery to her, "Why're you telling me this?"

Jim ignores her and carries on, "That means I expect you to be at the peak of your talents whenever I require your service. That means I expect you to have a normal life, since that's what you people need... a family, friends, blah, blah, blah, whatever rubbish you need."

She feels strange. It's almost like working with CIA, only that you're working against it.

"So... you made me sort of a... crime lord? Without my permission?"

"Minus three point five," he warns her, "better not say anything at all," he passes her a file, "Your name is Morstan to the rest of the world now."

She runs a weather eye through the file of one 'Mary Morstan', stillborn in October 1972, buried in Chiswick, "Convenient, I guess. My name's already Mary to all my friends."

"Yes," says he, biting into it once again, "Dull name. I expect you to come out of that shower in exactly seven-and-a-half minutes... Meanwhile, I'll... play with your cat."

She tries not to laugh at that, "Don't you dare kill her."

"Minus four point five!" he declares in a sing-song voice, making the hair on her spine stand up in attention.

* * *

After precisely seven and a half minutes, as if an alarm had gone off, Mary steps out, wiping her hair with the towel, and sits down in front of Jim, crossing her legs. Jim tries not to yawn as Pamela runs away from him and rubs against Mary's legs, as if seeking comfort from the touch of the mad man.

"Looks like you gave her quite a shock," she exclaims, rubbing against her soft fur as she purrs.

Ignoring her comment, and making her feel positively foolish for the first time in many years, Jim draws out another file out of his coat and hands it to her, "He is an exception."

She opens it, and runs her eyes through it, into the dead eyes staring away from her, his attention on the phone held close to his ear. She glances over him, and his name before Jim starts speaking again to draw her attention up towards him.

"Just entered the Netherlands. Emigrated from Cuba after having almost destroyed Fidel Castro's career. Newspaper proprietor. Much more than that, actually. Did an article or two on good ol' me just last week..."

"On you!" she exclaims in surprise, "I thought you were non-existent on the face of the earth."

"Oh, didn't you know?" says Jim, with his what seems like the signature maniacal laughter as he draws his phone out and browses on the internet for a bit, "I'm on kids' TV. I'm the storyteller!"

She laughs aloud, as she spots Jim's cute smile on the screen beside a couple of stuffed toys, "You? Kids?!"

"They love me," says he matter-of-factly, "Everybody does."

She rolls her eyes at that, "Sure they do."

"Minus five point five," he warns her, eyeing her slyly, his dark and dangerous eyes nothing like those of the jolly storyteller on the screen.

"So... newspaper fella wrote a story about the storyteller. Interesting..."

"Announced his presence, more like it... I'll be hearing from him one of these days. I can foresee that much."

"You sure?" And she bites her tongue at that. She shouldn't have said that. Jim tutts at her.

"Minus six, since you realised that what you said was wrong."

For some reason, she believes that an entire half-year was gone from her account, going by Jim's tone, "Charles Magnussen... seems like the puppet-master sort of guy."

"Claims that he has files on everybody... good old liar."

"Hmm... like you? You two will be very happy together," she eyes him suspiciously.

Jim sniggers, standing up and depositing his palms into his pockets after buttoning his jacket, "You are not to refuse any of his requests, whenever they come."

"Why?"

Jim smiles, and to Mary's utter horror and amazement, his bland cheeks flush with colour, like he is extremely pleased. In the extremes, "Let's just say that it is a matter of leverage, Moran."

She rolls her eyes, "You still gonna call me Moran?! I thought I was Mary now and - "

To her utter surprise, Jim bends down and kisses her on her left cheek. The area stings worse than a slap as his warm lips leave her cheeks. A shudder runs through her, as she tries to recover herself from the shock. Jim kissing her is not an earthly feeling at all. It's like slow poison mixed in dark chocolate spreading through your body slowly, it's like a paralysing sensation when his warm lips leave, letting cruel cold wind attack the tender skin. It's like mixing salt with tonic and applying it on a deep gash. It's not unpleasant, and yet it doesn't make her feel over-the-moon. It doesn't even make her feel like it was a friendly kiss. It's entirely alien, something that doesn't have anything to do with 'feeling'. Jim simply gives her a fatal smirk, "I gave you a kiss, so stop talking now..."

It still stings. The length of nanoseconds Jim spends away wiping his lips with his spotless blue handkerchief does nothing to ease that.

"I'll be seeing you around," he declares. And with that, he is gone.

She looks down at the file.

Charles Augustus Magnussen.

She notices that Jim has left another file for her. She opens it and finds a man in a navy blue overcoat, with a pallid complexion, thin firmly set lips and a sharp hook-like nose, with thin eyebrows set above ice-cold blue eyes looking directly at her. His forehead is wrinkled, and he is exiting a black door with the brass letters of 221B with an expression of acute exasperation clear on his face, and yet he seems to radiate authority. His eyes, unlike Magnussen's dead ones, seem to X-Ray her soul, as if reading every bit in her life, from her disgrace in CIA to her fraternising against the world she worked with earlier, even from his lifeless counterpart on paper.

Mycroft Holmes, she reads, MI6.

In a tiny subscript, probably in Jim's handwriting, she recognises it because she can see his menacing character in his spidery scrawl, she reads:

The Iceman *heart*

She wonders what the heart means. Why would Jim give her the file of his own boyfriend, that is, if he even was one?

He did seem Jim's type after all, she thinks with an amused smirk on her face. MI6, so very Jim's type. And of course, he returns to her moments later, appearing as if he had forgotten something, "Hop in, we're going to meet someone."

She suppresses another shout at the way in which he startles her, "What now?" says she, partly in exasperation. Jim rolls his eyes dramatically.

"My vehicle is waiting downstairs, and I really hope you bring with yourself that cat, Pally or Polly or - "

"Pamela," says she disdainfully, although her voice sounds amused at Jim's attempts as she picks her cat up, "Have a bit of respect. So, who's this special someone?"

He looks at her thoughtfully, "You'll like her very much. She's a lot like me."

"Sadist?" says she, thinking of the one time at how she had seen pure, untouched pleasure on Jim's face just as he said words powerful and deadly enough for a man to swallow a bullet, "Snooping on women when they're in shower?" she asks before she can stop herself, and Jim throws her a cheap wink, whilst managing to look faux-offended. How he could be serious and playful at the same time, it is beyond her. Jim Moriarty is a person she'll never understand, or never even get the measure of...

"You'll never get the measure of me, Moran sweetheart," says he, almost as if he has read her thoughts, and then he looks down. Mary follows his gaze, and blushes like a schoolgirl, something she has never done in ages. There's nothing of consequence, and the meaning might be completely innocent, but when Jim finally deigns to say, "I'm bigtime. I'm _huge_," she simply turns around, only to hear 'minus seven' from him. She rolls her eyes, escaping from his blatant and useless flirting. Jim was just biding his time, she thinks, and now she was really getting tired of his games, just within fifteen minutes of being in his presence.

* * *

A minute later, she's sitting beside Jim in a car with leather interiors, who's rapidly texting away in his phone. Her eyes take in everything: the places where she should hide if someone tried to shoot them from outside the car, from the window even though the glass was obviously bulletproof although there was no need for that, from the driver's seat, or from the seat beside her, or if they got into an accident. She always has had a tendency of precisely mapping out her vantage points, like a machine could. The CIA has trained her like that, and she doesn't know whether to thank them or to loathe them.

Jim abandons his phone on the seat, and hugs his legs to his chest, looking almost like a sad, dangerous puppy, ready to bite at the slightest provocation. Mary tries not to succumb to hysterical laughter, and peeps into his phone. Jim wasn't texting, as it now appears. He had been drawing things on the screen: two kids, girl and boy, and a decorated house, with a witch-like woman hiding behind, waiting for them.

Pamela simply mews quietly in her lap, looking at Jim with almost the same sad eyes as his, as if they both have been denied their favourite presents by Santa at Christmas.

The car slowly pulls up in front of an ornate electronic gates, which open across a wide drive. Their car drives through and progresses along the drive which curves across the centre of a small lake. Mary's eyes track the large beautiful and almost futuristic-looking house with tall windows and curved walls at the end of the drive. She tries to hide her wonder. Is this where Jim lived? She wonders how he manages to stay hidden and still can roam around freely in London when he clearly lived in such a posh...

"This isn't my house, sweetheart. I own it, but I'm in the market, as it were," says he, reading her mind again as he gets out, and holds the door open for Mary to clamber out with Pamela in her lap. She simply wonders how Jim can do that, or whether she is slipping. All her training for such a long period of time, only to fail in front of James Moriarty. "I want you to meet someone."

"Who?" She gets the distinct feeling that if this isn't Jim's house, then this must probably be someone's house who probably knew Jim very well. She surveys her surroundings very carefully, her eyes darting everywhere frantically, as if weighing advantageous positions for securing herself against any calamity, recording the house in her mind. Jim leads her inside like some fifteenth-century knight and he makes himself comfortable in what seems like the living room. She evaluates certain architectural defects in the building. For a guy like Moriarty, this house might be tasteful but it was useless, with no secret rooms or cabins or whatever she used to encounter in the houses of people she used to break into during her CIA era.

An era, that's what it had become for her now. She tries to tell herself that the CIA was her past, and that Jim was NOT her future. But for some reason, the way Jim treated her, nevertheless what he said about the seven months having gone from her life account, she has a feeling that she would be staying with Jim for a long, long time. She wasn't a simpleton from CIA. She was one of their best goddamned agents. She knew just what weighed what in a system.

"Me," she turns around at the heavy rich voice, and the clink of office heels against the laminated flooring, "I'm very pleased to meet you, Mary. And your cat," says she, running a tame hand through Pamela's soft fur.

"My dear sister. She's in love with kitties," says Jim with a yawn, at which she slaps him on his arm. Mary cannot see much resemblance, not even in those kind soft brown eyes, as opposed to Jim's innocently ruthless ones, or in that smile which she gives her. She might be a brunette, and she might have large brown eyes, but she's just not like Jim, "That's the same dialogue Mummy said you made when she pushed me out of her! And that's the same line you use for every new person you meet - "

"Behave, Jamie. Let _elders_ talk, and you can watch Loony Toons in the next room and work on your next story for those kids," she snaps, and turns her attention back to Mary, with the smile back on her face, ignoring Jim's sulk. She steps forward and daintily hugs her, and gives her an air-kiss. Mary lets the cat slip away from her embrace and roam around the house freely, as if liking her new surroundings immediately. Well, typical cat nature.

So, a common link between them. Brother and sister both love kisses. Mary feels already at home, because this new, taller woman seems friendly, and genuinely genuine. And she knows because she is a perfect judge of human nature, even when it came to Jim Moriarty.

She wonders why on earth Jim is showing her to his family.

"Lovely to meet you too," says she, "Miss Moriarty."

She gives a good-natured laugh, as opposed to the wide range of the blood-curdling laugh that was Jim's signature and from the girlish giggle he once gave, "Oh, no. I'm having none of that old stupid last name that my brother insists on. Call me Janine."

Mary nods, feeling the word roll between her tongue and the roof of her mouth, "Janine."

* * *

**If I consider 'His Last Vow' to be set in June 2014 and Sherlock returning to London after his two year exile in late-October/early November 2013, and regarding the canonical references to Mary acquiring her name 5 years ago, and that would mean 2009... and if, according to ACD canon, John stayed with Sherlock in Baker street as flatmates for 7-8 years, that would mean that John came to London somewhere between October 2004 - January 2005 (it's not that clear in the series), means that Mary acquired her identity and all her friends since after at the least three years she came to London. Mary broke out in the February of 2003, worked for Merridew till May 2003, and set out for London, working as a freelance for two years till let's say at the most 2005/2006... oops, I made a mistake of six years here when I said that Mary acquired friends, and then she needs to go out with David for two years as well... So, I'll be making edits in the previous chapter :-)**

**Let's consider Mary met David in 2009 in the earliest (although it's much less probable than 2010 because she hasn't made up a convincing life yet), and Sherlock jumped from the roof of St. Bart's somewhere in 2011 because he has to return after two years in November 2013. That would mean that she was still dating David when John was mourning for Sherlock?! Is the canon implying that she planned to meet John?!**

**Anyway, I leave these questions for you, free to interpret as you wish :-)**


	5. Her Last Vow

**Yes, self titled. Dialogue extracts are the courtesy of ArianeDevere's LJ transcript.**

**This chapter is based on the anomaly that it took John five more minutes to find Sherlock, whereas in TBB, he instantly rushed to Sherlock's aid without caring about anyone else**

* * *

21st June, 2014

Sherlock draws in a breath and rapidly flashes back to several different times when they have been together, he and Mary, with John, planning the weddings, organising at what time the orchestras were supposed to start. She looks back into his face, blank with shock, completely unexpected, her betrayal, but she has to do this, not just for John, but for the man who was responsible for the air she breathed long before she had met John.

But Sherlock's face is artificially, really, expertly, beautifully _blank._ John is probably downstairs tending to Janine, clever Janine, innocent Janine and now useless Janine, and she is here, standing on the precipice of fate, to be able to make Sherlock Holmes do anything.

But she still needs to ask him. She should confirm the answer. If John is here, then she can kill Magnussen and escape. Even Sherlock Holmes cannot catch her, and she knows it. Probably he knows too. Human error, as he so fondly remarks.

"Is John here?"

For the first time, her mask slips, and the devil arises, and she's sure that Sherlock is too gobsmacked to see it. She has learnt to play by her rules, not the CIA, not Moriarty, not the world. Only her. She might be a dying breed, but she is still here. She can do anything for John, if it meant killing for him, or being killed for him.

A shadow of Sherlock's voice arrives, a shaky whisper against his heavy breath. She can _see_ him thinking, still trying to save her husband. Well, at least they were on common ground," He's, um ..."

She regains her facade, cool and collected, "Is John _here_?"

"He-he's downstairs."

"So, what do you do now?" Magnussen speaks breathlessly as she smiles humourlessly, "Kill us both?"

She considers the idea, but Sherlock alive is much more valuable than Sherlock dead. Besides, she needs him. She just wishes he can see past it, and reach out for the logic. Oddly, that seems too far-fetched now.

"Mary," Sherlock... she simply wonders how he has made it through in the big bad world while still being such a little child, "whatever he's got on you... let me help."

She rolls her eyes exasperatedly. Why isn't he getting it? "Oh, Sherlock, if you take one more step I swear I will kill you."

At this, Sherlock stands back, and raises his palms, "Go ahead, Mrs. Watson, I know you won't."

She takes another exaggerated sigh, and viciously lashes the end of her pistol across Magnussen's face. His glasses fly off his face and he falls to the ground, unconscious, "I didn't."

"Human error," he sighs, grabbing the wall and leaning against it.

"James Moriarty is alive," she retracts her handgun, looking at the floor, at Magnussen's unconscious body, "You must be aware."

"Yes," he still stares with shock at her face, still playing along like the good little boy he is, "although... I suspect my... brother isn't."

"I don't care," and she doesn't care if her mask is slipping. Anything for John, "I need protection for John."

"So I've seen," and now, Sherlock is slowly regaining himself. He mustn't do that. She cocks the handgun and points it at him again, to disarm him from his mind games and to keep him vulnerable, so that she can have her way, "Why... do you care... about Moriarty?"

"What will you do for John?" she asks him instead, her voice still steady and calm. Sherlock still has no idea about her connection with Jim, "Will you kill for him?"

"Why do you care about Moriarty?" Sherlock repeats, and she rolls her eyes.

"Oh, for goodness' sake, Sherlock. I can kill you in a minute, you know that."

"You won't."

"Then you don't know me."

"Evidently."

She sucks in a deep breath, "Moriarty, when he comes, he'll come for John. Not you, not me."

"I know."

She looks down at her feet, "I need Magnussen dead."

"You can work around that - "

"No! You can't. You don't know Magnussen, Sherlock... he's not just a blackmailer, he's so much more than that. You last vow, Sherlock. Can - you - kill - for - John?"

A deep breath. She knows there's no point in lying, "If you love John, _truly _love him..." she swallows, knowing the audacity of what she is about to suggest, knowing that she and John may not be able to reconcile ever because John Watson is an angry man when he is lied to, "You must do exactly as I ask you to."

"Why?"

"It's my last vow too," she looks into his grey eyes dangerously, "I _will _do anything, Sherlock, and by now, it must be clear to you."

"You won't hurt John," she can hear the underlying panic in his voice, and she wants to shake her head in denial, but this is the only way.

"Will he love me after this?" she asks him instead, doubting the answer, but keeping John safer takes more priority than keeping him in love with her. If he truly loves her, he must accept her as she is.

Sherlock swallows, and she does not notice his fingers reaching into the breast-pocket of his greatcoat, "No... reason not to. He still... loved me after having... left him alone... for two years... your case, it's... more understandable..."

"No," she whispers, as Sherlock reaches for the metal rod he has taken from Magnussen's table which he has kept tucked away into the waistband of his trousers, "I lied to him since the day I met him... our whole relationship is technically a lie... he must know who I am, and you must help - "

Suddenly she spots Sherlock's fingers inside his greatcoat, and the beginnings of a metal rod poking out. Instantly, she fires a bullet out of her defence reflexes, but she knows it isn't that. Sherlock's face contorts in pain and smoothens in shock. His lips tremble, and he wobbles on his right leg unsteadily, "...no..."

"Anything, Sherlock," she looks upon him cruelly, while her eyes burn with guilt, "You don't tell John about this... you will tell John what I ask you to. Do I see you nod?"

Sherlock says nothing. He simply falls to the floor, his lips and his fingers still trembling, and as she suspects, his body going into shock. She picks Magnussen's phone up, seeing that it is already dialled to 999. Unnecessary as her call is now, she cuts it off.

"Do - I - see - you - nod?"

He trembles, but manages a slight shake of the head. She knows that it is more probably the seizure, but she takes it as an affirmative, and walks out of there.

* * *

**Review?**


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